“I saw him in the parking lot with her. I think he wanted to get caught,” my mom’s hushed voice bleeds with betrayal. Unlike most gossip, this conversation doesn’t have the quality of a listener, hungry for salacious trivialities. The whole house feels on edge, as I sit on the couch in an adjoining room, straining to hear.
I’m fifteen years old. I missed church that Sunday morning, but I’m catching up with what happened in the service through my mom’s one-sided phone conversations. The instant mom hangs up the phone it rings again. She’s in a t-shirt and shorts, walking back and forth with bare feet on the cork kitchen tile, reciting assorted facts and collecting others.
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